July 4th is the 30th anniversary of Margy and I being together as lovers! We have many different anniversaries actually–for example, it was six years before we moved into a household together, when we moved from Boston to Cape Cod in 1999. Perhaps that was our first truly big commitment, buying a house together in a new place. We never did the legal marriage thing, even as we fought for it to become available to same-sex couples, partly because Margy has been disabled since we’ve known each other, and she would have lost her health care coverage, and partly because legal marriage just didn’t matter to us personally, radical dykes that we were.

We were something of a case of opposites attract, and we often found ourselves surprised to be together. Our values and commitments were solidly aligned, but our personalities and relationship styles were different. Still, we adapted to each other’s needs, we cared for each other, and we are still learning how to do that. I love Margy for her passion, for her humor, for her curiosity, for her tenderness. Also for being such a sweet butch. Music, dancing, activism, the ocean–they were all parts of our love story. These days, I love that she goes out beyond the yard to get rid of invasive plants; that when she mows, she mows around native plants like goldenrod and ferns so they can flourish.
I love that she encourages my pond building and orchard planting. I love that we both love critters like birds and frogs. That each of us cherishes solitude as well as togetherness. As we come into our elderhood, many things keep changing. We face new challenges, but our love is like the ground, a living foundation in which to keep planting and tending the seasons of our daily life. I am so grateful that we found each other, and that we have journeyed together for these thirty years!




The dawn wakes me up at 5 a.m. even though I went to bed after 11. Part of me cries, “No! I’m tired!” I’ve been weary and out of balance since my father died. But then I remember that the morning is my proper habitat. I remember that the dawn is full of magic. So I get up and go outside, and finally set up the screen tent that functions for me in summer as a place of meditation and prayer.
So I was sitting on the deck, just writing in my journal, and this little being came within a few feet, just looking at me. No fear, just curiosity. We live together in this beautiful place, and perhaps he/she is acknowledging that? Or saying “Thank you for the sunflower seeds, but why do you make them so hard to get in that crazy contraption?”